


miniature rock dwellers

by openended



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Quarter Quell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:17:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:  Haymitch/Katniss, Haymitch enters the Quarter Quell in Peeta's place<br/><i>[so fill your glass. here’s to us.] promises<br/>made to be broken, made to last.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	miniature rock dwellers

Katniss has to live.

That’s all there is to it.

Katniss – 

(the Mockingjay, the unexpected – and yet unknown to her – symbol of the Districts’ rebellion)

– has to live.

If she dies, the rebellion dies, and the Capitol continues to win. Victors are their own special sort of clique in Panem, not quite a secret handshake but a nod and an eyebrow, and he knows districts and victors that are on board with the rebellion. There are some that would be on her side, willing to lay down their lives for a girl who almost ate some berries, but he doesn’t know if it’s enough.

And when she emerges from that arena, crowned victorious again, she deserves a chance at life. A real life, one with happiness and laughter – 

(as much as victors can have lives with happiness and laughter)

– not one that mirrors his.

He may be a drunk, but he isn’t delusional. He knows that his time is up, that he’s spent the past twenty three years in an omnipresent fog of alcohol. His life isn’t spontaneously going to find its way back on track. That’s not how this world works.

And if he’s in the arena with her, he can help her. Two is better than one in the arena, especially at night when exhaustion and starvation kick in. She’s already endeared herself to the public, she doesn’t need his help getting sponsors. If all else fails, Peeta can help with sponsors from the outside more than Haymitch ever could; he can play up a love story that he has no part in only so much.

There’s an argument, of course. That’s to be expected. He’s too old – 

(he’s an alcoholic and _alcohol isn’t something the Capitol’s going to hide in the arena, Haymitch_ , that smart comment from Peeta, of all people)

– he’ll get himself killed.

That’s the point, after all. But he’ll get himself killed after he’s ensured that Katniss is going to win. And he won’t require anyone to look after him. Peeta only got as far as he did in the 74th because he aligned himself with the Careers, a fact Haymitch quickly learns Peeta does not like being reminded of. By the look on Katniss’ face, it’s a reminder that needed to be said.

It’s decided then, and Peeta leaves the kitchen for bed and they both know that he’s not happy with the decision. The love story is real for him and the idea of not being there to protect her – 

(if anyone didn’t need protecting inside the arena, it’s Katniss Everdeen, a fact Peeta forgets sometimes, so wrapped up in his innocent love)

– is worse than having to go back into the hell that is the Games arena.

Haymitch promises to get sober enough in time so he isn’t going through withdrawal during the Games. Katniss makes a face of complete disbelief but says _okay, Haymitch_ anyway, like she actually believes him.

Bless her heart.

But he’s been drinking tonight, so _sober enough in time_ isn’t going to start just now. He lifts his glass in a half-serious toast to the both of them.

“May the odds be _ever_ in your favor,” Katniss mocks and raises her own glass of juice.

The glasses clink and he finishes the scotch as she sips at her juice. He gets up for a refill.

“I will keep you alive,” he says. It’s been his blessing and curse, this ability to be serious and genuine even in the midst of a bender.

She looks up at him, hands clasped in front of her.

For one horrifying moment, she’s the girl who volunteered in place of her sister. A girl who hadn’t yet killed anyone, or had anyone try to kill her– 

(a girl who hadn’t accidentally triggered a rebellion with something as small as refusing to kill a friend)

– then he blinks and she’s a Hunger Games victor, just like he is. Harsh and hardened by the victory, the luxury of being alive when so many others are not.

“I won’t kill you,” she says.

There’s a moment of silence interrupted only by the tumble of ice in his glass and the quiet whisper of metal as he unscrews the top to the scotch. He studies the amber liquid for a while, almost able to see his fractured reflection in the ice.

“You won’t have to,” he promises. 

She tilts her head and the look of disbelief is back. 

He’s just a drunk old man who won a game a long time ago. What promises could he possibly keep now?

“You will not have to kill me.”

She seems satisfied by the repetition and returns to staring into her juice, looking for answers to problems that haven’t even arisen yet.

Now there’s even more planning to be done and for a moment, he contemplates pouring the scotch down the sink but ends up putting the glass to his lips instead.

He finishes his drink and decides to go to bed. Things are always easier by daylight.

Her voice stops him with one hand on the door.

“I’m holding you to that,” she says.

He nods and whispers, “I know,” before disappearing into the night.


End file.
